"History is written by its victors"
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"Dom-er-ic…" His voice was low, careful. The boy… knight, or young man, whatever he was now. Stood still, quiet , and unmoving beside the hearth.
"I cannot say words will ease the weight you bear. Your father… Roose Bolton… was a man of exacting standards. Stern, distant to most, yet… he loved you in the only way he knew how."
Maester Coleman's eyes swept over the flickering shadows, he watched as the young lord just ten and seven years shifted at his words as if shrugging, still remaining quiet yet it was clear he was listening.
"I thank you for your words Maester Coleman, but the time of mourning has long passed, and loved me ? One could only hope that was the case. But with all his hidden brutality and sternness we can say he held his lands and people in check. Yet he was never a good man nor a good ruler."
"But I intend to be." He finished now turning to the old maester who now nervously shifted at his piercing gaze.
Lord Roose Bolton had died quietly in his sleep, without any sign of illness, no hint of poison, and no whisper of treachery. He simply slipped away, fading like a shadow chased off by the sun. His only son and heir was summoned home from his fostering in the Eyrie under Lord Royce, called back to assume his birthright and rule his lands.
Coleman had expected a youth shaped by southern courtesies and the honorable temperament common among those fostered in houses like the Royces. Instead, he found that the new young lord bore far more resemblance to the father he had just badmouthed —his demeanor, his stillness, his unsettling mannerisms all unmistakably Bolton.
He was cunning and quick on his feet, and few if not little passed his observing gaze.
His martial skill and swordsmanship were unmatched—greater than anything he had seen in all his years of watching men fight. The boy wasn't as pale as his father, having inherited more of his mother's coloring, nor did he share Roose's hair. But what he did have were those unmistakable pale grey eyes. That, and a habit of falling into unsettling, almost eerie silences, made him unmistakably his father's son.
"I want a full census of my lands," he said.
"Every farm, every town and village, every person, and every piece of infrastructure within my domain—record it all and bring me the reports."
"My lord, such a task could take weeks," Maester Coleman replied, eyes widening.
"I certainly hope not, Maester. You would do well to begin at once and organize the necessary parties to have it done. To ease the burden, I have several men in my service who will assist you. With their help, I expect the task completed within a moons time and I'm being generous."
By the seven the maester whispered a mental prayer at the audacity of the time frame set for the task.
He couldn't mean those Braavosi he had brought back from the Eyrie…those failed merchants and clerks, a scattered collection of wanderers from gods-knew-where, all following him with the obedient devotion one might expect for King Robert himself.
It was strange…,strange that any of them would abandon richer opportunities to live in the cold, crumbling edges of the North, especially so far inland and far removed from the trade routes their trades depended upon.
Seven Braavosi, a Summer Islander, a dismissed maester, two Volantenes, a disgraced Lysene banker fleeing mountains of debt and another who he and his companions knew little about, two Pentoshi, and a Meereenese. A curious company for any lord to gather, let alone a northern one.
And yet they served him with a loyalty that unsettled Coleman, as if bound by some unspoken agreement, some confidence in the young lord that Coleman himself could not yet grasp.
They kept to themselves mostly, speaking in the soft accents of their distant lands, sharing odd habits and stranger eastern customs. But whenever the young lord sat in his father's solar now his, since his return to the Dreadfort, he'd summon them for counsel. Something that was seemingly common, as if they had done the same back in the eyrie.
Coleman had tried, on several occasions, to ask what bound such men to the Heir of the Dreadfort. The answers varied and from the young lord it was met with silence.
"Then I shall see it done Lord Bolton," he replied bowing his head in defeat.
It had been less than a moon since his father was laid to rest in the crypts, and already the young lord had begun to leave his mark—on the castle, on its people, and on the lesser lords sworn to House Bolton who had remained a day after Roose's funeral to renew their oaths.
House Whitehill , bitter rivals of the Forresters and fiercely loyal to the Boltons had paid their respects and swore their oaths to their new liege, and so did House Stout, who were located not too far from the Dreadfort. House Blount also came along with members of house Norrey.
House Dustin had paid their respect in full along with House Ryswell who were family and closer allies now to house bolton due to domeric's late Ryswell mother.
Karstark, Manderly, Flint, Umber , Glover, Mormont , Hornwood and Starks all too sent their condolences but none of the lords ever set foot personally to Rooses's funeral sending letters if not cousins to attend, a sign of the lack of favor between house bolton and the other houses of the north.
He watched Maester Coleman skitter away, the man's chains clattering as he hurried out of the solar. Domeric almost laughed at his nervous fussing, and at his earlier show of defiance. Coleman regarded him now the way all old men looked at the young: as if he were arrogant, untested, and unfit to wield power. But Doneric would not have his resolve questioned. He would not appear weak—not after planning so carefully to rid himself of Roose. His purse still ached from the price he'd paid for that Lysene poison, but he did not regret it for a moment.
The Eyrie had taught him patience and sharpened his mind to the laws of this world, yet it was the memory of his old world—its order, its technology, its stability—that laid bare the savage truth of this one. Here, life was nothing. A realm of war, sorcery, treachery, cruelty, betrayal, and forces that cared little for mortal lives. How could he let fate decide his future when he carried knowledge no one else in this age possessed?
How could he bow to Roose Bolton, a well suspected flayer, cold tyrant…..and call him father? He only had one father and he wasn't in a world where you had to shit in a bucket cause there was not a toilet nor outhouse.
The thought of it all was ridiculous, even those so called honorable fools how could he stomach the Starks or that gluttonous fool on the Iron Throne? None of them deserved dominion over him. Only God could claim that right. He wasn't driven by ego, but he would not let lesser men dictate the shape of his life.
He would forge his own fate, transform his life , his people his lands and domain into that of strength , wealth, and a proper civilization.
He snapped his fingers. The faint, fluttering flame flared violently in response. His magic had grown considerably since last year—but he knew he was only at the beginning.